


ROT-13

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, First Time, Humor, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-13
Updated: 2011-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:28:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I must learn at once every noise that your lungs and throat are capable of producing. Would you prefer to stand up or lie down while I do this?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	ROT-13

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [ROT-13星](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1764221) by [shanzhu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shanzhu/pseuds/shanzhu)



This is a [fill for a prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/11848.html?thread=61297736#t61297736) on the kinkmeme: “John crash lands on an alien planet and is captured by alien!Sherlock who takes him home to study/experiment with/etc.” (Click the link to read the entire prompt.)  
   
   
   
   
 **1.**  
   
When the first engine failed, John attempted to navigate his pod towards a densely-developed area of the planet below, to increase his chances of getting whatever assistance he would need as soon as possible. But then the navigation panel blinked out, and he lost control of where he might land.  
   
Now the pod was on solid ground, and still. There was nothing to tell him if the air outside was breathable, or what sort of sentient life he was likely to encounter. But fortune favours the bold all over the galaxy, so he opened the hatch and climbed out.  
   
   
   
   
 **2.**  
   
He watched the object fall just behind a copse of trees, and chased after it. He’d seen a few other people here today, walking about, but none of them appeared more qualified than himself to intercept an object which, based on its trajectory, was from outer space .  
   
   
   
   
 **3.**  
   
The hatch opened to a gray sky. John’s Handheld still functioned, and told him that he could breathe the atmosphere without his lungs bursting, that his internal organs would not be crushed by the planet’s gravity, and that there was a forty percent chance of rain.  
   
John stepped out of the pod with no breathing apparatus, just his Handheld and the jumpsuit he was wearing.  
   
Though he’d tried to navigate toward a populated area, all around him was meadow and foliage. But even one degree could put you hundreds of kilometres off course, so no surprise there.  
   
A lone figure in a long coat appeared in the clearing, and raced towards him, carrying a bucket.  
   
   
   
   
 **4.**  
   
An obviously dazed figure emerged from the silver pod half-buried in the ground. He wore a close-fitting jumpsuit and was somewhat exotic-looking: to begin with, he was short. Perhaps gravity was more powerful where he came from. And his hair was blonde. Naturally blonde.  
   
Then he opened his mouth, and a very pleasant sound came out.  
   
   
   
   
 **5.**  
   
The tall man in the coat didn’t seem to understand John’s words; and why should he? John popped back into his pod, retrieved a satchel, and took from it two tiny, curved devices. He made a big demonstration of putting one in his ear, then handed the other to the man in the coat and made some gestures encouraging him to do the same, all the while hoping he wasn’t accidentally doing something that would be interpreted by this planet’s people as an obscene pantomime.  
   
The man in the coat put the device in his ear. John said, “I was just saying that I come in peace.”  
   
“As do I,” said the man in the coat.  
   
   
   
   
 **6.**  
   
“My name is John,” John said.  
   
“Sherlock. This device, does it translate what I’m saying? Or only what I hear?”  
   
“Does it-- oh. Do you mean, can anyone understand _you_ when _you’re_ wearing one? No, it’s only a receptor. So, ah…where am I? My people don’t have a name for this planet, we just call it Class M, ROT-13.”  
   
“We call it Lonsicorico Donapatorius.”  
   
“Heh. Is there any way to abbreviate that?”  
   
Sherlock stalked around the pod. “Can you tell me precisely where you came from? Your trajectory into our atmosphere? Your speed? The materials from which this vehicle is constructed? I’d like to make some notes; the data may come in handy if I encounter another one of these in the future.”  
   
“You get a lot of crashed pods here, then?”  
   
“This is my first. Does this vehicle have a shielding device? Was it functioning when you broke through the ionosphere?”  
   
“You wouldn’t happen to be a interplanetary defence strategist?”  
   
“No,” said Sherlock. “You wouldn’t happen to be a scout for a galactic invasion force?”  
   
“No.”  
   
So John rattled off every relevant spec and statistic he could think of, and Sherlock dropped his bucket to scribble on a notepad. The bucket was full of squirming annelids; Sherlock muttered something about how the recent precipitation had created the perfect conditions under which to collect them. He did not explain why he was collecting them.  
   
When John could think of nothing more to say on the subject of his journey and the vehicle he’d travelled in, Sherlock looked around and said, “We should leave now. We’ve probably already stayed too long. Some government people are surely on their way to investigate the mysterious object that fell out of the sky.”  
   
“Alright. How far are we from civilisation?”  
   
“About fifty metres.” Sherlock pointed, then led the way. “On the other side of those trees we’ll be able to catch a cab. We’d best not use the Pneumatic. You’ll draw attention.”  
   
In the woods, Sherlock gave John his coat to wear, to hide his shiny jumpsuit. “If anyone asks about your hair, insist that it’s dyed.”  
   
“Alright.”  
   
“And if anyone asks about your height, tell them…it’s to do with a war injury. They’ll be too polite to inquire further.”  
   
“Am I that short? And what’s wrong with my hair, by the way?”  
   
“Blondes and gingers were bred out a hundred years ago. Not intentionally. Just another contestant eliminated from the genetic games. Like external genitalia.”  
   
John’s jaw dropped. “You’ve not got external genitalia?”  
   
“Only joking. Wanted to find out if you had it, without seeming nosy.”  
   
   
   
   
 **7.**  
   
Sherlock reminded John not to speak in the cab, as the driver would hear his strange language. The vehicle, which had no wheels, glided silently along a polished metal surface. As they made their way, John peered out the window at the strange architecture.  
   
“This city boasts many of the greatest structural specimens on our world,” Sherlock said. “For example, do you see that large wheel there, on the opposite bank of the river? It’s called the Eye of Lonsicorico Donapatorius. There’s been a wheel standing on that site for eight hundred years. It’s called the Eye because it is said that our city is under its constant surveillance. No matter where you go in this city, you are being watched. Of course,” Sherlock was whispering now, “I don’t believe in that. It’s just religious twaddle. Not many people know this, but when the thing was originally built, it was intended to be an amusement device. Naturally, all record of that has been suppressed.”  
   
   
   
   
 **8.**  
   
The universal translator was not an infallible piece of equipment. For instance: though John associated “pod” with the vehicle he’d travelled in, when Sherlock explained that he was taking John to his residence, the device translated the word as “pod.” So there was a little confusion there. Also, the device was unable to come up with a translation when Sherlock declared his profession. Whenever he said it, John only heard “pbafhygvat grgrpgvir.” But then, Sherlock claimed to be the only person in the world practicing this profession, so that might have explained the disconnect. Going by the context of Sherlock’s conversation, John guessed that he had some sort of role with law enforcement. This frightened him, until it became clear that Sherlock had no intention of making John’s presence known to any law enforcement entity on this planet.  
   
Sherlock’s “pod” consisted of four tiny rooms, one of which John guessed to be the kitchen and one the bathroom. He had to “guess” at it because, whilst those two rooms were furnished with appliances that did seem suited for cooking and bathing, respectively, they also contained a scattering of electronic devices, laboratory equipment, sources of ignition, and a wide variety of biological specimens in an even wider variety of containers.  
   
John was about to ask if it would be possible to eat, but Sherlock spoke first. “I’ve just got to finish up with an experiment I’m working on. Won’t be a moment. Make yourself comfortable.” And he took his bucket and left John in the largest of the four rooms. The furniture was in familiar shapes, but John had no idea how anything else in the room was operated. He sat quietly, and, for the first time since his crash-landing, took a deep breath and had a think.  
   
   
   
   
 **9.**  
   
John was hungry. He hoped they ate real food on this planet. Not that he couldn’t subsist on nutrition packets, but after seven years in the space fleet, “geometric precision” was no longer a thrilling quality in meals.  
   
Once Sherlock had been gone ten minutes, John’s hopes and desires were reduced to, perhaps, just a cup of tea. Regardless of how bland the food in space was, UK crews never wanted for a nice hot cuppa. It occurred to John, then, that he might not be so lucky on this planet. For the remaining eight minutes of Sherlock’s absence, John grimly contemplated a future, of indeterminate length, with absolutely no tea.  
   
   
   
   
 **10.**  
   
The moment Sherlock reappeared, John rushed to him, asking, “Is it possible to get tea on this planet?”  
   
Sherlock regarded him with bemusement, but said nothing.  
   
“No. Oh, God no.” John staggered back. “No tea? Alright, well. Stiff upper lip, and all that. Can I at least get something to eat? I’m starving.”  
   
“Oh, I’m sorry, I should have mentioned. I took out that translating device. I thought it would be a fun challenge to try learning your language without it. Also, the sound of your unfiltered voice is delightful. Really quite pleasant. So, if you please, communicate to me what you want, and I’ll have a guess.”  
   
John had thought he’d been fortunate to encounter Sherlock. Someone who wouldn’t interrogate him, or turn him over to the military, or cut him open to see how he worked. But Sherlock’s desire for a “fun challenge” diminished him somewhat as a host.  
   
John said. “I’m hungry. Food?” In an attempt to indicate his desire, he cupped his fingers and tapped at his mouth, then rubbed his belly in a circle. “Food?”  
   
Sherlock watched the gestures carefully. “Oh, I see. My apologies, it didn’t occur to me before, because it’s not something I go in for much, despite most of my race viewing it as a necessity. But, alright, no one can accuse me of being a poor ambassador.”  
   
And he took John in his arms, kissed him deeply on the mouth, and stroked his belly with long, nimble fingers.  
   
   
   
   
 **11.**  
   
The first noise that Sherlock’s new human made was muffled by the kiss. To Sherlock’s ears, it was like a symphony heard through a brick wall, stifled but still beautiful, all the more intriguing for its elusiveness. But to his disappointment, when Sherlock pulled back to hear the noise without his mouth in the way, it stopped. He kissed John again, trying to make the sound come back. This time there was nothing. Hmm, well, Sherlock understood about novelty. His human might be bored with the kissing already. As he continued to rub John’s belly, though, his hand dipped in lower and lower circles, until it felt that something hard and hot had appeared beneath the fabric of the jumpsuit. Sherlock lowered the zip of the jumpsuit until that thick, hard length popped out. John groaned to feel it freed and exposed to the cool air. Sherlock nearly jumped with delight at this new sound. It was just as sweet, but more intense; a dramatic sting to the gentle swell of the kiss.  
   
Sherlock wrapped his fingers tentatively around John’s cock, and gave it a few strokes, but the angle wasn’t quite right. “You do it,” Sherlock said. “Show me how.”  
   
John used an overhand stroke that turned out to be easy for Sherlock to imitate, and he soon resumed control. The sounds that filled his ears were heavenly. He helped John out of the rest of his suit. “I must learn at once every noise that your lungs and throat are capable of producing. Would you prefer to stand up or lie down while I do this?”  
   
   
   
   
 **12.**  
   
All spacemen feared capture by hostile aliens, as it seemed obvious that said aliens would immediately set to work performing gruesome experiments on their captives. Never had John dared imagine that _this_ would be the form his experimentation would take.  
   
They were well into their third hour sprawled on his host’s bed, and Sherlock was still devising increasingly inventive ways to squeeze new noises out of him.  
   
That Sherlock remained quiet and aloof only made it more of a turn-on. The sight, the very notion, of an alien being impassively manipulating his body, pleasuring him so clinically, sent thrills through him from his toes to his scalp. Sherlock did not appear aroused in any way; John only glimpsed him smiling beatifically whenever strained groans and whimpers reached his ears.  
   
Sherlock poked and rubbed and licked every part of John, quickly moving on from attempts at stimulation that did not result in noises, and lingering anywhere that provoked a squeal, moan, grunt, gasp, or shout. Most of Sherlock’s discoveries were John’s discoveries as well. John had no idea he was so ticklish in so many places. No one had ever given it a go to see if the backs of his knees were erogenous before. Every muscle of his own that Sherlock employed in this experiment seemed inexhaustible, and he was not afraid to put his tongue _anywhere_.  
   
This was not right. John should have been collecting soil samples and checking radiation levels with his Handheld, not trying (unsuccessfully) to explain to an alien who refused to wear a translator what a “refractory period” was. He’d also been unsuccessful at explaining the likelihood of his being able to have a third orgasm. Sherlock’s ignorance allowed him to methodically coax it out, without a care for the extra effort required.  
   
Quivering and sore now, he begged Sherlock ineffectually to let him put his legs down, but Sherlock ignored him. John might have been done, but Sherlock wasn’t.  
   
“Please, no more,” John begged. “It’s so tender. I really, I’ve got nothing left. I really can’t. I can’t…Sherlock. _Oh_. Mmm. Oh, I’m gonna. Gonna! Hmn-hmn-hmn oh God _ohhh_ …”  
   
   
   
   
 **13.**  
   
Later on, Sherlock woke John and handed him a bundle of fabric. “I’m afraid I don’t have any proper clothes for you at the moment; mine are all tailored, and wouldn’t fit you. But these should do. Get dressed; Mycroft is visiting shortly.”  
   
John touched the device in his ear. Sherlock’s…croft?  
   
The bundle of soft fabric must have been pajamas. Both the bottoms and the shirt were too long for him, but not comically so. He dressed and padded out into the main room, to find a new person seated across from Sherlock.  
   
The person said, “Who’s this?”  
   
“This is John. John, this is my tube-kin, Mycroft.”  
   
John made a gesture of greeting, he hoped.  
   
“I found him,” Sherlock told Mycroft proudly. “He belongs to me. John is an _Earth-man_. When you make love to him, he produces music.”  
   
“For God’s sake, Sherlock, can’t you just put on the radio?”  
   
“It’s not like normal music. It sounds extraordinary. You must hear it. Go on, John, show him.”  
   
John turned to Mycroft and, not knowing what to do, simply recited his original greeting. “Hello. I’m John. I come in peace.”  
   
Mycroft remained incredulous. “Well, that is pleasing to the ear, but I’d hardly call it extraordinary.”  
   
“No, no, John, make the noises you made when I put my tongue in your--”  
   
“Hold on. Sherlock, can he _understand_ you?”  
   
“Oh. Yes, he has some sort of translator in his ear.”  
   
“Good Lord, you mean he’s understood everything we’ve been saying?”  
   
“Yes. Now, listen to this.” Sherlock leapt from his chair, arms extended, and proceeded to dig his fingers into John’s ribcage. John began to laugh and squeal uncontrollably.  
   
When Sherlock stopped and looked back, Mycroft finally seemed impressed. “That _is_ lovely. Does he…is he supposed to do that? I mean, you’re not torturing him?”  
   
“No, he quite likes it.”  
   
“Does it take a lot of practice?”  
   
“None at all. I got a melody just as lovely as that out of him the first time I tried.”  
   
“Incredible. Oh, but we were talking about the translator. What else do you know about it?”  
   
Sherlock sat back down, bored with the direction the conversation had taken. “He gave me one, actually. I tried it out. We had a nice long chat, but I thought it would be more interesting to learn his language without it. And his voice is much more pleasant when it’s not translated.”  
   
“And have you learned much of his language?”  
   
“Still working on that,” Sherlock said, biting his lip.  
   
“Well, what did you learn about him when you had the translator in?”  
   
“Quite a lot. The vessel he arrived in is made of an alloy that--”  
   
“Mmm, I’m sure that’s fascinating, but what did you learn about _him_? What does he eat, for example?”  
   
At this, John perked up. In all this new strangeness, he’d forgotten that he still hadn’t eaten.  
   
“Eat?” Sherlock said. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him eat anything.”  
   
“Have you offered him any _food_?”  
   
Sherlock shrugged. “There’s none in the pod.”  
   
“That’s no reason not to feed a guest! John, you can understand me, yes? Are you hungry?”  
   
John nodded vigorously.  
   
“Does that mean yes?”  
   
“I think so.”  
   
“Then let’s take him out to eat.”  
   
“No! No, Mycroft. You’re going to try to get in his good graces, so he’ll let you steal him away from me. And then you and your government cronies will vivisect him, or worse. I found him, he belongs to me, and I’m not sharing him.”  
   
“Sherlock--”  
   
“I’ll feed him. You can be on your way.”  
   
On his way out, Mycroft whispered to John: “I’ll keep an eye on you. If he starts to misuse you, I’ll come get you. Don’t worry.”  
   
   
   
   
 **14.**  
   
Fifteen minutes later, several parcels were delivered to the flat, which turned out to be quite a lot of food. Sherlock opened all the parcels up and explained to John what each one was. John chose a loaf of animal product and a cup of what appeared to be legumes, or something legume-like in nature.  
   
“Mycroft thinks he’s clever,” Sherlock said whilst John shoveled food into his mouth. “You heard him say he was just going to use the loo before he left, but I know he snuck into my room and put a hidden camera in. He wants to observe you. He’s probably interested in _boring_ things about you, like how your home planet’s political system works. Hurry up and finish eating. When you’re done we’ll go back in there and I’ll show him what you can do. I’ll play him a concerto.”  
   
John swallowed his mouthful of food, then removed the translator from his ear and urged Sherlock to use it. Sherlock reluctantly put the device in his ear, and John said, “So that’s really all that’s going to happen around here? Weren’t you going to try to learn my language, at some point?”  
   
Sherlock handed the translator back, and patiently waited whilst John replaced it in his ear. Then he said, “Oh, _dull_.”

**Author's Note:**

> You guys, check out this awesome fanart by mycroftismight on Tumblr!
> 
> [   
> ](http://s200.photobucket.com/albums/aa136/berlynn_wohl/?action=view&current=tumblr_lvrl5ucUz11qe51kjo1_500.jpg)
> 
> John's jumpsuit is even better than the one I imagined when I wrote this fic. Darling, you are THE BEST!


End file.
